


the path of pins

by feralphoenix



Category: THE iDOLM@STER
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Child Abuse, Gen, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-08-26
Updated: 2013-08-26
Packaged: 2017-12-24 18:44:07
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,934
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/943357
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/feralphoenix/pseuds/feralphoenix
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Chihaya puts her foot down.</p>
            </blockquote>





	the path of pins

**Author's Note:**

> _(I am choosing not to suffer uselessly_ – the thorn princess)

She did not feel at all up to doing anything after that night, but Kisaragi Chihaya was accustomed to the shakes and nausea that came with an episode, and furthermore she had spent the past two years learning that she could accomplish any host of unpleasant tasks with enough willpower. Most importantly, she needed this to be over with now, before things spiraled out of control again.

Because she still felt cold and sick, she put on a jacket and hid her hair underneath a winter hat despite the warm weather. She held fast to the letter in its slightly crumpled envelope, the letter that had been left in the changing room, that she had not been able to deliver to its intended recipient because when she had arrived backstage everyone had just _assumed—_

She walked faster and tried not to think about the concert. She failed to not think about the concert, mostly. She thought about how in the end she had somehow been able to force herself to sing, after days and days of being too upset to make a single note come out, after being rushed to a doctor and told what she already knew, that it was her PTSD flaring up again. She supposed that being put under enough stress had made her sort of break through to the other side of it. She’d sounded terrible, like rusty nails scraping on a chalkboard, but the crowd hadn’t seemed to care. At least there was that.

Even now, if her throat and nasal passages weren’t too sore from a night of throwing up and blowing her nose, she supposed she might be able to sing. It was some comfort, at least.

She made it to the office building after a long fuzzy interval of getting lost in her own head. It was difficult to climb the stairs—at least as difficult as it had been to carry boxes out of the house—and harder to walk inside—at least as hard as it had been to walk out of the house—but once she was in, well, there was only so much further to walk.

Chihaya’s ears felt very curious and strange, as if she were underwater, once her feet had safely carried her to in front of the producer’s desk. He was on the phone, but he looked at her and frowned and told whoever it was that he was going to call them back, something important had just come up. She wondered what her expression must look like. She probably still seemed very sick and pale.

If she opened her mouth she thought she might throw up again, and so she just bowed and held the envelope forward.

She felt it lifted from her hands but did not straighten up. Distantly, she heard the television and one of the girls laughing at whatever show was playing—probably Haruka. It was a few moments before she heard paper being ripped and the letter being pulled out and unfolded.

 “I see,” said the producer after what seemed like several minutes. “I had wondered if this wasn’t going to happen. What we did was—well, we were thinking of your best interests, but it was a risk. If we overstepped ourselves, then there’s no helping it. I’ll take care of everything legal on our end. Rights to any songs you want to keep will be transferred over to you. If you don’t want to do it in person you can request things by letter or email, especially if you want time to think about it.”

She would need the time. She would need the space in private, to see what she would still be able to sing without panicking, or wanting to hurt herself or sleep until everything was less immediate. She wondered if the producer had spoken to any doctors about her medical history, but the information was probably confidential. He was being considerate, and succeeding at it this time.

“Thank you,” she said. Her throat hurt. “I will do that.”

When she raised her head slightly, he was smiling. He looked a little sad. Even though she knew she had no other choice, she felt guilty.

“Thank you for being with us,” the producer said. “I’m sorry it’s ended like this.”

Chihaya bowed her head again. “Thank you for all you’ve done for me until now. I will be in touch.”

 

 

Haruka caught her on the staircase. Chihaya had expected that someone might, although she hoped that they wouldn’t. She stopped at the bottom of the stairs, turned halfway around, and looked up from the corner of her eye. Haruka was on the landing, holding so tight to the railings on either side that her knuckles were white.

“Chihaya-chan,” Haruka said in between breaths. Her hair ribbons were crooked. Her foot teetered on the edge of the next stair, and her eyes flickered back and forth as if trying to look for clues in Chihaya’s expression and posture. “Chihaya-chan—Producer said…”

Chihaya nodded.

Haruka was quiet for a moment. Her lower lip bent. “Chihaya-chan, why?”

She had hoped that it wasn’t going to come to this. She considered turning on her heel and leaving, but she had waited at the foot of the stairs after all to prevent a public scene. And she had liked Haruka. Haruka had been her friend.

Chihaya took a breath and held it, narrowing her eyes as she looked for words.

“Because if you all did what you did last night, and with that—song you wrote,” she said with difficulty, “for my sake—then it isn’t safe for me to stay here. I don’t think you’ll understand. All of that is proof that you won’t understand.”

“Of course I’ll understand!” Haruka said. Her voice was so loud that it echoed, overpowering Chihaya’s in its post-illness weakness. “We’re teammates, aren’t we? You just have to explain it to me and I know I’ll understand.”

Chihaya stared at her for a while.

“You got my brother’s coloring books from my mother,” she said at last. “I expect that she will have told you that our argument at his grave was just the usual kind of personality friction between mothers and daughters. And I’ve seen the way you look at my apartment, with _pity._ My life before I came to 765 Production is nothing like your normal life. My family is nothing like your normal, happy family. Even if I told you, you wouldn’t believe me. Even if you believed me, you could not understand.”

Haruka was frowning. “Chihaya-chan—”

Chihaya closed her eyes. “You saw the things that were published about me and my brother’s death. Didn’t you wonder where they heard that it was my fault for not saving him?”

“It wasn’t—” Haruka began, and then cut herself off. Her frown deepened.

“I brought a yo-yo for him. He always liked to play with them, at festivals.” Chihaya rested a hand to her forehead. Migraine pains were starting up in her temples. She needed to rehydrate, and get out of this conversation as quickly as possible. But Haruka would follow her everywhere until Chihaya made this clear—that was the kind of person Haruka was; she wouldn’t give up as long as she still believed she was doing what was best. “I ran into my mother there and we argued. The same arguments as always.” When Chihaya lowered her hand, Haruka was still looking at her in confusion. “Judging from the photographs of us that were published in magazines, someone was there listening in. They would have heard her reminding me that it was my fault. She likes to do that, when she’s angry. Even if it wasn’t quoted from our shouting at each other, the reporters could easily have asked either of my parents. They would have been happy to say that my brother died because I was negligent looking after him.”

Haruka was quiet. Her forehead was crinkled with something like confusion or concern. She didn’t interject—it was an improvement—but from her expression, Chihaya guessed that she still didn’t understand the full import of what Chihaya was trying to explain.

So she tried again. “In middle school I was sick very often. I had headaches and I got nauseous and I was prone to colds. The school nurse couldn’t figure out what was wrong. I never went to the hospital because I was too young to go by myself and my parents were too busy fighting each other over me and over my brother’s memory to take me. One day I went to school with a handprint on my face from when my mother had hit me and my homeroom teacher sent me to the counselor instead.”

The wrinkles on Haruka’s forehead increased. Chihaya thought she saw Haruka’s nose wrinkle, too. It was typical, if disheartening; only people with no pride and no ability to maintain a public face went to therapy, or that was what most people seemed to feel.

“I talked to the counselor a lot, and I was able to understand some things. My parents used me as a pawn in their fights, or a scapegoat to push their anger and blame onto. I bought my apartment and moved out as soon as I turned fifteen and could live alone because I couldn’t bear it anymore. You may pity me for living out of boxes, but I don’t get sick anymore. No one hits me when I practice singing. I don’t have to hide in a corner if my mother or father is in a bad mood. I can go for weeks without anyone telling me that it’s my fault my brother is dead, and I should have died instead of him.”

Haruka was still quiet. Chihaya took another deep breath.

“As long as I’m singing, I can still remember my brother’s smile. We were happiest when we sang together. I want to preserve the memory of that happiness. I want to be able to remember him, and how our family was before it broke down with his death.”

 “But you shouldn’t—you shouldn’t be singing out of some kind of obligation like that,” Haruka said. She sounded as if she were about to cry. “Chihaya-chan, it wasn’t your fault. And you’re an idol, so—”

She stopped in the middle of the sentence and fell silent, a frightened look on her face. Chihaya was probably glaring.

“An idol is supposed to sing to make her fans happy. I know how you and the others think. But before I’m an idol, I’m Kisaragi Yuu’s sister. I know that even if I had called out to him on that day, he might still have run into the parking lot,” she said fiercely, to prevent Haruka from interrupting again. “I know that he might not have gotten away from the car in time. I know that, but I still _feel_ like it’s my fault sometimes, because he was my little brother and I was responsible for him, and because my parents have told me that it’s my fault, over and over.

“But my grief, and my guilt—they are _my_ feelings and no one else’s. I am happy that you want for me not to suffer, but I will not forgive anyone who tells me how I ought to feel. What my parents have done to me—what they are _still_ doing to me—that’s my burden, too, and you can’t take that away either. You meant well—I appreciate that you meant well—but acting as if you know how Yuu would feel is insulting. Telling me that I should not use my music to grieve for him and to remember him is insulting.

“I was going to leave last night. I only came to the concert to hand in my letter of resignation. But not one of you—not one of any of my friends—thought to look at me and see how I really felt. You all just dressed me up and pushed me out onto the stage. You assumed that your plan had been able to save me. To _cure_ me.”

Her eyes felt hot with tears. She still felt dizzy and she still felt nauseous, but she stood her ground.

“Why?” said Haruka. “Why didn’t you say anything?”

“Because you still don’t understand,” Chihaya answered. “Because I still don’t know if you fully believe me. No one ever has, unless they’ve seen. Because I was happy just having friendly coworkers. That was all the support I needed. I never wanted or needed anyone to save me or cure me.

“I enjoyed myself here. I still don’t like most of the work that comes with being an idol, but it was fun because you and everyone else were there too. But now I know the truth about how you all think of me. Now I know that you have no respect for my feelings and wishes. I’m sure that I’m coming off as a horrible teammate, and terribly selfish. But I can’t trust any of you anymore.” Chihaya bore the sickness, locked her shaking knees to keep herself upright, and stared at Haruka even as Haruka let go of a railing to cover her mouth, as if hiding her face starting to crumple. “I’m telling you this—I’m being honest, even knowing that my feelings may not ever come across—because you are my friend. I would rather you understand.”

“Chihaya-chan.”

“I love music, and I love my brother who loved music,” said Chihaya.  “Those feelings come first for me. Those feelings aren’t a burden. Those feelings aren’t what’s hurting me. I’m sorry. This is hard for me to talk about and I’m probably not doing it very well.” She rubbed her face and pinched the low bridge of her nose. “But even if you don’t understand the rest—I want you to understand why I have to leave. I can’t trust anyone here anymore. Even if no one in 765 Pro hurts me like this ever again, once was enough. I’ll never be able to forget what you did to me, trying to help me in the wrong way.”

When she looked back up, Haruka was sniffling a little and rubbing at her eyes.

“What will you do now?” Haruka asked. Chihaya wanted to sink straight to the floor in relief at the acceptance in her voice.

“There are legal things to be worked out with Producer,” Chihaya said. She took a deep breath and let it go. The cramping in her stomach felt as though it was starting to subside, though she still felt wary. “I may or may not need to make some kind of statement to the press based on the reaction to the concert. I have enough money set aside that I can take a break. After that I think I will try to find a different idol agency, or sign a record deal. I can’t give up on music as a career. I don’t want to give it up. It’s too important to me.”

Haruka nodded, chewing on her lip. Her big green eyes were misty. Her hair was a mess from the run down the stairs. It made her look extra pitiful and forlorn.

“I’ll talk to everybody else,” she said. “I think—I think Producer will, too. I should have known better, since he didn’t come after you. They won’t bother you about this. I’ll make sure.”

“Thank you,” Chihaya said.

Haruka narrowed her eyes. “Um. I’m sorry.”

Chihaya shook her head. She turned and walked to the door.

“Will it—will it be a bother if I write?” Haruka called.

Chihaya looked over her shoulder.

“Maybe at first,” she said. “But I don’t mind if you do after a few weeks. I’ll let you know later if I’m okay with meeting you and the others face to face.” If it ever bothered her less. They had been terribly callous to put her through so much pain and humiliation, but they were still her friends. It would be hard to tell them no. She would have to think for a long time on what she wanted most, and what would be best for her.

Haruka nodded and didn’t say anything.

Chihaya tried a smile. “Take care of 765 Pro for me.”

Haruka nodded again. “It won’t be the same without you.”

Chihaya turned away. “You and everyone else will be there. You’ll manage.”

 

 

When Chihaya got home, she spent the next hour throwing up again, down to bile though she was. She drank water out of bottles, tried to sleep through her erratic changes in temperature, and made herself tea with honey for her throat. It still hurt from talking so much, and from forcing herself at the concert.

But at least it was the aftermath of nerves, rather than the sickness and the endless loops of self-destructive thoughts and feelings that tended to grip her when her traumatic memories resurfaced. Talking to Haruka had been stressful and horrid, but—she had been able to stand up for herself. It felt good, to succeed in having done so.

After sleeping off and on for the whole day, she found herself awake to watch the sun rise over the Tokyo skyline. She made herself coffee and dug a notebook out of one of her boxes, scooping a pencil off the countertop.

As pale streamers of light crossed the sky, she jotted down ideas for lyrics, surrounding the murky idea of fairy tale princesses and the need to be your own hero.


End file.
